What Took You So Long?
by birdie7272
Summary: John swears he should be more concerned about Sherlock holding his hand for so long. Then again... Johnlock. Fluff. One shot.


"Sherlock?" John leaned back in his chair and twisted his body so he could catch Sherlock's eye.

"Yes John?"

"You've been holding my hand for three hours."

"Oh." He looked down as if just realizing what John said was true. "So I have."

Though it was called to his attention, he did not let go and John did nothing but stare out at the wall opposite his chair. The wall was bare, as was the rest of the room and Sherlock had nothing to deduce their location with -the room even being soundproof. All they could do was wait for Lestrade or Mycroft to answer the emergency text Sherlock had sent while they were being kidnapped.

It was impressive on Sherlock's part to be able to text behind his back while losing consciousness due to the drugs blow darted into their jugulars. Seriously, who uses a blow dart? Yet, that was how it was done. According to Sherlock it was the latest terrorist group that kidnapped them. To John it didn't really mattered who. The only thing that mattered was escaping unharmed.

John had thought Sherlock grabbing his hand once gaining consciousness and not so subtly checking his pulse was a part of some plan. That's why he went along with it and strung their fingers together as they discussed what had happened and where they were.

It was after about twenty minutes that John questioned the reason behind it but Sherlock was a genius so he kept his mouth shut and his hand closed. After a while he wasn't even really aware that he had started sliding his thumb over Sherlock's finger in gentle circles that made the pad of his digit tingle. It only called attention to itself when he looked down to check and see if their restraints had magically managed to free themselves. Chastising himself mentally for allowing the subconscious act, he went back to staring at the wall. What was Sherlock doing anyway? He was quite quiet and didn't say anything about his thumb or why they were still holding hands.

After an hour or so, his wrist started to ache. Whoever decided that tying chairs back to back in the most stereotypical fashion was the correct way to detain a kidnaped civilian was going to get one hell of an ass kicking by Captain John Watson. He contemplated asking Sherlock to free his hand for a moment so he could stretch his hurting joint or switch hands but he found the touch quite comforting and he was afraid Sherlock would take his hand away altogether. John didn't want to foil his plan or anything. He was a soldier. He could sit through a bit of wrist pain.

The ache left him and a warming comfort replaced it as they continued to wait. The embrace of Sherlock's long fingers curling over the gaps in his and resting high against the back of his hand calmed him more than he already was. If he closed his eyes he could picture them back home, in front of the fire, music playing, tea steeping, and facing the same direction.

Hand holding. It is a silly concept. To join the part of our anatomy with the most appendages and feel such comfort from it doesn't really make sense. There are so many ways to hold the hand too. There's the weaving of fingers, the closed clasp, the opposite finger grab, the pinky hold, the wrist grasp, and probably others John couldn't think about though he was thinking of many while staring at that wall.

It is intimate, if one thinks about it. Your hands are your life. You touch everything that affects you, everything that makes you who you are, you feel it and hold it all in the palm of your hand. When two hands come together so does every bit of that person's existence. It comes colliding with yours and you share it by combining in a simultaneous clasp that can range from the desperation to never let go, the comfort of a loved one, or simply the guidance of a parent helping their child cross the street. The head line, the life line, and the love line, all merge together in the small gap. For the time they are together the ones holding hands are every bit as part of each other as they are themselves.

This trail of thought made John blush and he was suddenly glad their chairs were turned. It also made him self-conscious as he noticed the prolonged contact had caused some clamminess in his palm. Eventually those thoughts trailed away as he thought of all Sherlock touched in his life. The strings of his violin, the glass of his test tubes, the silk of his housecoat, the curl of his hair, the scarf round his neck, the rough of his stubble, the curve of the banister, the magnifying glass in his pocket, the rim of his teacup, the contours of his chest, the keys on his laptop, the dip of his lips… The list kept going and as it did the question of why started to grow. What was the purpose? Why was Sherlock holding his hand?

Sherlock did not think such sentimental things as he stared at his wall. His mind was too busy to be bothered questioning his reasoning. John had stunned him when he had spoken after such a long length of silence and he was surprised to hear the words leaving John's lips. It was not a question regarding their safety but merely about his hand still being attached to John. Three hours? Had it truly been three hours? How did John even know. He didn't have an accessible watch. Had he been counting?

If it truly had been that long then they were running out of time. If his calculations were correct – and they always were- they had four hours from the start of the kidnap until they took John from him. Obviously the first threat would be made against Scotland Yard, then would come further proof they had been kidnapped –the blinking in the corner was an obvious indicator of a not-so-hidden camera-, then would come the lack of negotiations, followed by the true physical threat to one of the hostages. No doubt they would take John, for Sherlock was too valuable to harm. They could kill John to make their point and still have the Consulting Detective as a bargaining piece. Given the time all that would take, plus the travel time from 221B to their kidnapped destination, and the lack of means for escape, they had less than a half hour to be saved by a sloppy text that he knew had been sent to either Lestrade or Mycroft. Most likely Mycroft. Almost exact certainty as Sherlock would never screw that up. Never. Especially not while losing consciousness and wrestling for his phone.

Sherlock found his hand giving the slightest squeeze on John's and a sudden unexplainable relief washed over him when John mirrored the touch. By doing so, he realized that John's had was a bit damp and he had not realized this before. Was he nervous? He had every right to be but John hadn't shown nerves when facing death before. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Perhaps he was getting ill. Sherlock slipping his fingers back and brushed them against John's wrist to feel his pulse.

John jumped when Sherlock had pulled from his hand and his heartbeat skipped just as Sherlock started taking it. Oh God what was he doing? Why did he have to stop?

"Are you running a fever?" Sherlock asked as he slipped his hand back into John's. He had gotten so used to the touch it seemed wrong to leave their fingers so close without locking them together.

"A fever?" John squeaked as he wrapped his fingers back over Sherlock's knuckles.

"You are showing signs of-"

"I'm not- I don't- I don't have a fever Sherlock. Now shut up and get us out of here. You've had long enough to think."

"Um- Did I say something?"

"Never mind. Just- Where are they? Shouldn't your brother be here by now?" Sherlock hummed and John twitched back in his chair, trying to catch his eyes again. "Hmm? What's that supposed to mean then?"

"There is a slight chance I may have sent the message to Moriarty."

"Moriarty?! Oh that's just bloody fantastic."

"They're names are very close together!"

"Why is he even in your phone?!"

"Is that an actual question or are you allowing your anger to show your stupidity?"

"Sherlock Holmes, when we get out of here I swear to god I am going to smash that stupid phone of your into a million bloody pieces."

"How very mature."

"Mature?! You want to talk about maturity? You're the one that wanted to go for ice cream and that was how we ended up outside within range of the goddamn blow darts!"

"John-"

"You're the one that walks around in nothing but a sheet because you're too lazy to put on anything proper!"

"John, if that pressure persists on-"

"You're the one that can't clean a thing in the flat because you don't see the point in upsetting your _transport_! You're-"

"John you're hurting my hand!"

John jumped as he realized his fist had been curling around Sherlock's nimble fingers and he immediately loosened his hold. "Oh. Sorry."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and argued in sight of John who also leaned back to glare. "I admit there were many unseen factors-"

"Most your fault-"

"That led to these developments. But I assure you, I will not let them kill you."

"Kill me? What about you?"

"Obviously John, the-"

"_Obviously_. Don't give me obviously. What the hell are you on about?"

"Given the-"

"Oh shut up I don't care."

"You just asked me to-"

"Shut. Up."

By some sort of miracle, Sherlock did quiet for a time. John wouldn't have thought it a victory if he knew Sherlock was thinking about how much trouble they were in. O and Y were ten letters apart. Why did Mycroft insist on changing his name from British Government on his phone?

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"You've been holding my hand for three hours."

"Um- Yes. So I have."

"No doubt deluding yourself into thinking it a part of some brilliant plan I have no doubt come up with. Therefore continuing to suppress your actual reasons for-"

"You mean you actually have a plan?"

"I never said that. When did I say that? I've already explained-"

"I meant did you-"

"No of course not!"

"Alright!" John snapped and they both fell back into silence for a brief moment.

"If you are scared John-"

"Who said I was scared?"

"Rapid heartbeat, sweating of the brow and palm-"

"I'm not scared Sherlock."

"Then that leaves only one conclusion."

John sighed deep and long, tilting his head forward with the weight of the air leaving him. With effort, he lifted his head and turned to Sherlock with a forced smile. "And what would that be Sherlock?"

With a start John jumped as Sherlock, with an agile bend of the neck, slammed his lips over the top of his and captured his mouth in an unexpected kiss. As Sherlock closed his eyes in preparation for his deductions to be proven wrong, John's heart was beating out of its chest, his palms getting clammy for good reason now, and his fingers gripping tight around Sherlock's yet again.

His bugged eyes inspected the cheekbone so close to his eye, the curled hair flicking against his face, the pointed nose brushing his own, and finally down to the top of the cupid-bow lip jutting out over his. With a hum, he found his eyes willing themselves to close and he felt his mouth opening with the call.

Suddenly John was not the only one wishing the cliché of back-to-back tying of chairs was not the protocol their kidnappers took as they both twisted back and towards each other, pulling the ropes taught. The rough brushing of lip over lip was messy and both hands started to pull at each other to reach what they could of the other better. Desperate gasps escaped their mouths as Sherlock managed to slide his tongue expertly over John's lips and catch him between his teeth. The chairs creaked and the ropes burned what flesh it touched as their desire rose.

It was just in that moment that the door came crashing down and Lestrade stood with his gun raised and a bemused expression on his face. John and Sherlock jumped apart to face the intruder, John's face growing red as Sherlock's strained to stay straight.

That's when Lestrade started to laugh, lower his gun, and ask, "What took you so long?"

"What took _you_ so long?!" Sherlock challenged as they were freed from the binds of their chars, their hands needing to free from each other in order for the rope to be cut away.

"Do you know what that text looked like?! You're lucky I'm here at all!"

"Um-" John was sure he meant to say thank you but he couldn't find any words past that.

"Come on John," Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him towards the door. "We're going home."

"Um-"

Lestrade could be heard chuckling while trying to pull them back with the excuse of paperwork that they both ignored. To the cops lining the halls on the way out the door, Sherlock yelled at them all to shut up and get out of the way and that's when John found his voice again. "Um- Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" Sherlock snapped, running them out the door.

"You're still holding my hand."

"And I'm not letting go."


End file.
